


The Future of Alone

by teacupsandspoons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2587328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacupsandspoons/pseuds/teacupsandspoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is just starting to get his life back together when he sees a familiar face in the emergency room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Living Alone

**Author's Note:**

> hello! This is my first fic ever and I am very nervous. It is very angst, and could be triggering (see the tags). Any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated. Let me know what you think.

John strode down the hall back to triage. He had successfully stanched the bleeding from an abdominal stab wound and handed the victim off to a surgical team. As he peeled off his gloves and donned a new pair he asked his assisting  med student, Dan, “What have we got next?”

“Unidentified male, unconscious, mid thirties. EMTs  picked him up just round the corner after a passer by called in that a man had collapsed. He’s still unconscious, seems stable, breathing normally, but the ride was only a minute so the EMTs haven't started anything else without us,” Dan responded.

“Bloody fantastic,” John swore to himself. His shift ended in ten minutes and he got to assigned a patient that the EMTs hadn't even started on.

“Any other information from the person who called it in?”

“No they called 999 from a payphone and were gone by the time the ambulance showed up.”

John closed his eyes for a moment in quite exasperation. He was so tired.

 

His therapist had recommended he take some time away from work after Sherlock's death. When he hadn’t returned after two months of leave the clinic had no choice but to let him go. He could no longer afford the small flat he had moved to, so he had to take Missus Hudson up on her offer of, “Come back any time. Don’t worry about the rent.” He worried that going back to the flat might affect him negatively, but the truth was he was already so distraught it couldn’t get much worse. At least, when he awoke from a nightmare, he didn’t have the additional panic of being in an unfamiliar place. Besides much of what would have reminded him of Sherlock was gone or tidied away. Experiments no longer littered the kitchen and his books and papers no longer covered every horizontal surface. The walls were cleaned and spackled and missus Hudson had relocated Sherlock’s most personal items, his skull and violin, to his bedroom.

John had left that door closed. Except on his second night back in the flat. He dreamed of Afghanistan, and awoke with a start. Damp with sweat, he had stumbled half awake into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Without realizing, he made two. He was about to knock on Sherlock’s door, before he remembered that there was nobody in there to hear, nobody to respond and accept his offer of midnight tea.

He had slowly pushed the door open and switched on the lamp in the corner, which bathed the room in soft warm light. The room was even more reminiscent of Sherlock now that all of his belongings from the rest of the flat had been concentrated here. John gently placed one mug down onto the bedside table before climbing into Sherlock's bed. The blankets smelled like Sherlock even though he had hardly ever slept under them. John sat and sipped his tea for a moment before speaking into the empty room. “Jesus Sherlock, its bloody horrible not to have you here. I miss you so much.” John finished his tea before leaving the room, turning the lamp off on his way out. He rinsed his mug out in the kitchen, and returned to his own room. He didn’t cry until he was back in his own bed.

He didn’t go back to Sherlock's room, not even to retrieve the cold cup of tea he had left there. He felt it was best to keep the talking to Sherlock and the grieving at the graveyard. Perhaps the physical distance might provide some emotional distance.  

The day after the tea incident, Mike stamford had called John to tell him that there was a part time opening for an emergency doctor down at Saint Barts, if he was interested. John took the job. At least he could start paying Missus Hudson some excuse for rent.

Anyway, it was more than a year later and he was finally starting to move on. Of course he still thought about Sherlock, how could he not. But instead of seven sleepless nights a week, he might only have two or three. It seemed that working in the A&E helped with the nightmares. He had been able to increase his hours and was almost back to working full time. He had been doing a little bit better, but tonight he was exhausted.

The previous night he had awoken from a nightmare of a young soldier dying in his arms crying. The man cried, “I don’t want to die, John I’m scared.” The soldier was Sherlock, his dark curls matted with blood. “John please,” Sherlock whispered before his eyes lost focus. John awoke with tears streaming down his cheeks.

 

Back in A&E, John shook the sleep from his head, opening his eyes under the glaring lights. Just one more patient, and then he could go home, he thought. He pushed through the double swinging doors to where his patient was waiting for him on a stretcher. As his eyes fell onto the patients face he froze. Before him lay the battered form of Sherlock Holmes. He was still recognizable inspite of the bruises on his sallow and sunken face. Inspite of the dirty and limp black hair that framed his face and was long enough to pass his chin. John’s mind was racing trying to add up the simply impossible sight he was seeing.

“John are you alright?” Dan asked, concern in his eyes.

“Fine” John responded, jerking back into action. “Just thought I recognized him for a second.” If Sherlock was alive and had faked his own death, there must be a reason, so revealing his identity was surely unwise. Either that or John had completely lost his mind. But now he had to forget about all that, now he had to be a doctor for this “John Doe.” He couldn’t let his colleagues see his panic.

The bruises on his face looked bad, but at least a day old if not more, so they couldn’t be the cause of the collapse then. John held his hand under Sherlock’s nose and felt only the faintest of breaths, pressing two fingers to Sherlock's neck he felt that his pulse was slow and weak.

“You said his breathing was stable,” John said, urgently looking too the EMT who had just unloaded Sherlock from the ambulance.

“It was when we loaded him.”

“Well its not now, you there get him an oxygen mask, and Dan cut off his shirt so that we can get some heart monitors on him.”

Dan nodded and grabbed some scissors and began cutting. Sherlock was dressed in a big ratty coat and several long sleeve t-shirts that were still nowhere nearly enough for the cold weather outside. Pulling the coat open John could see how emaciated Sherlock had become and grimaced, but when he stepped aside so Dan could split the front of his t-shirts and peeled the fabric away John though he might vomit. Dan revealed Sherlock's chest John could count Sherlock's protruding ribs and see the top of his hip bones poking out painfully under his concave stomach. But when Dan revealed Sherlock's arms, it was worse. First, John saw the raw red cuts and browning scabs which covered his arms in hap hazard rows, then he saw the more subtle pinpricks and bruising in Sherlock’s elbows. Dan stuck the heart monitors onto Sherlock's chest. Then as Dan inserted and IV into the back of Sherlock’s hand John pulled back Sherlock’s eyelids, and saw that his pupils were so small they were almost invisible. Adding that to his depressed breathing and weak pulse, John had his diagnosis.

“Dan get a syringe of Naloxone, he’s on a heroin overdose.”

Dan nodded and turned away to get the drug. He was slipping the syringe into Sherlock's IV, when the heart monitor started ringing furiously. Sherlock’s heart was slowing to a near stop. Dan depressed the plunger of the syringe, before grabbing the defibrillator paddles. Dan paused, the antidote drug worked in seconds, and sometimes it alone could speed up the patient’s heart, but they must have administered the drug too late. Sherlock's heart stopped, and his heart monitor switched from beeping to a high pitched whine. “Charging… Clear!” Dan shouted and pressed the paddles to Sherlock's chest. Blam. No pulse. “Charging, Clear!” Balm. No pulse. This couldn’t be happening, John thought, no this was another nightmare. He couldn’t really be seeing Sherlock Holmes dieing right in front of him… again. “Charging, Clear!” Dan shouted. Blam… The heart monitor silenced before beeping once, twice, Sherlock’s heart was beating albeit still slowly. The nurses and assisting doctors started to wheel Sherlock to the ICU, looking to John for direction. Hopefully none of them had noticed that he had stopped breathing. “Keep him on IV fluids and under observation in case it happens again, he may need another dose of Naloxone, and he’s on a seventy two hour psych hold, get someone from psych down to section him.”John finished. Then Sherlock was gone.

The full impact of what John had just seen and said sunk in. He couldn’t believe it. Could he have really gotten Sherlock back to just take his pulse and lose him again? This couldn’t be real. He must be having a nightmare, but in his nightmares Sherlock died at the end. He didn’t get resuscitated and carted off. He was staring off into space when he was roused by Emit who had just come on shift to replace him, “Hey John, time for you to go home, get some rest, you look like you need it.”

“You have no idea.” John replied.


	2. Missing You: Part One

Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness. He felt his eyes opening. Could he be doing that? He saw the face of John Watson and felt so safe and happy, though he knew he was only imagining things, he couldn’t even lift his eyelids after all. Then he remembered John, the fall, he had failed, and now he was going to die. That was the point, and after all he was already dead.

 

His plan had been a good one, lie low while picking off Moriarty's assassins until he could ensure that his friends would be safe. Then he could return to John, Missus Hudson and Lestrad. Perhaps they would be the only people to know of his return, after all invisibility is a priceless asset to a detective. Perhaps Moriarty's little game would turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to him.

He found the smallest and shabbiest apartment in London. He paid his rent by pickpocketing those who could clearly afford it. After turning in his wool coat for a patched windbreaker and a sweatshirt and jeans, and shaving his head and donning a baseball cap, he was near unrecognizable. He spent his days walking the streets of London gathering information from his homeless network and following those he knew to be on the fringes of Moriarty's web, hoping they might lead him to the assassins. Sometimes he would sit in his flat with the files and photos that Mycroft would regularly send him, trying to find the connections. Every now and then he would go to his own grave and watch John, as he listened to the scratchy transmission on his phone from the bug he had hidden at the base of the grave. John would tell Sherlock how much he missed him, wished he was here, how he couldn’t sleep without dreaming of him jumping of that ledge. It was after returning from the graveyard one night, full of anger, that he could not be with John when John needed him, That sherlock finally figured out the location of the first assassin. He texted the address to Mycroft. Forty minutes later he received a test.

Subject one has been eliminated. -MH

Sherlock slept soundly for the first time since his death. He would be there for John soon.

 

It took ages to find the second assassin, and the stress was literally wearing Sherlock thin. He had lost several stone since his death, several stone he could not really afford to lose. He didn’t have Missus Hudson there to pester him with jam on toast, or John to bring him takeaway. He could get the takeaway himself, but then all he would think about was how the food would taste so much better if he was sharing it with John.

Sometimes, when it had been days since he had made any progress, he would think bitterly of his failures. His failure to protect John, to be there for John. How he had hurt John. Maybe John would be better off without him. All that he did was put John in danger. He didn’t deserve anyone as good as John, not when he was so useless. Sometimes he would be saved from that myer of thought by a breakthrough, other times he would check his phone to see if there were any new recordings of John at his grave telling him how human he really was. But eventually that wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough on the night he had cornered the second assassin. Mycroft thought it better if Sherlock took care of this one himself, since Sherlock was actually Mycroft's most capable agent. Sherlock trained his gun at the assassin’s head and asked politely for any information about Sebastian Moran. He received only a smile and a taunt. “Look at you trying so hard to get back to your little John Watson, Moriarty was right. You love him don’t you, but he doesn’t love you. Sure he misses you, but only because you entertained him. But he will find something else interesting soon. Or better yet someone interesting, John Watson never needed you.”

Shooting him in the head gave Sherlock no satisfaction, and as he walked back to his flat his mind spun more and more quickly with doubts.

The gunman was wrong. He didn’t know anything, but John had been doing better, started working at the A and E, surely that was exciting, exciting enough to make him forget about Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, the arrogant sociopath who left body parts in the fridge and shot holes through the walls. Sherlock Holmes who had landed John in a vest of explosives, who pissed of his dates, who had got one his dates tied to a chair on the business end of a crossbow. Sherlock Holmes who never ceases to annoy and endanger, Sherlock Holmes who had failed to keep John safe. Sherlock Holmes that failure. NO. No. Sherlock snapped at himself, don’t let him get to you, he doesn’t know anything. Prove it. Fine I will then.

Sherlock pulled out his phone to bring up a new recording of John’s voice telling him how John missed his violin, or that he had found a new restaurant he was sure Sherlock would have liked, or any of the other inane things he said to Sherlock’s headstone. But his phone told him that there were no new recordings.

No that couldn’t be right, Sherlock thought as he slammed the door of his apartment closed behind him. John visited the graveyard at least once a week, it had been two weeks since he had checked for new recordings.

Something was wrong, something must of happened to John, please God let John be safe, Sherlock thought. Wait, John started his job at the A& E two weeks ago, that must be why. He has been too busy… or he has better things to do. He didn’t think about me. He doesn’t need me. He is better off without me. Stop it, just because John is getting his life back together doesn’t mean he doesn’t want me back. But he doesn’t need me back, he can get on without me, and I always put him in danger. I always fail  him.

Sherlock paced around his tiny room pulling at his hair scratching at his skin that suddenly felt too tight. He caught sight of himself in the mirror beside his bed, skinny and manic his still short hair, sticking up at odd angles where he had pulled at it. His skin yellowish and pale from malnutrition. All that he saw disgusted him, his reflection screamed FAILURE. How could anybody want him, care about him. He didn’t deserve John, he didn’t deserve happiness, he didn’t deserve anything.

He stormed into the bathroom grabbing his scissors and razor, hoping to cut off his hair and perhaps become a little more presentable a little less hideous, but when he put down the scissors and razor on the edge of the sink and looked up into his own eyes, suddenly he had a better idea. Opening his razor his hands started to shake, he pressed the blade to the sallow skin of his left forearm, and hesitated. No, he deserved this, he deserved to hurt like he had hurt everyone who had ever for a second cared about him. He dragged the razor across his arm, and watched as the blood surfaced and began to drip from the cut. He was almost shocked that the blood was such a healthy red color, he had almost expected it to come out brown and sludgy, thats how it felt in his veins. He felt the pain, but it was very, very, far away. He sliced again. Bring the pain closer, feel it. You machine, he bitterly remembered John calling him that. Machine. Again, deeper this time. Oh that one he actually felt, and he hissed between his teeth. Thoughts of John disappeared as he could suddenly feel the pain of not only the most recent cut, but also the two before it. The silence in his head was a relief. It was like a chemical fire in his chest had been extinguished. He let out a ragged breath that he didn’t realize he was holding and dropped down to sit on the toilet seat cover. He heaved a heavy sob of relief. He remembered that he had taken out the second assassin, he hadn’t failed at that, he was closer to getting back to John. It would be ok. 


	3. Missing You: Part Two

Sherlock felt that the incident was a discovery of a new tool. A sentiment stopper that he could use whenever thoughts of John and his fears and doubts started to distract him. When the thoughts started to distract him from the case, he would take out his razor and add a few more cuts to his arms or legs, using the quite in his mind that followed to look for new connections. It was hardly ever like the first time. He hardly ever let it get that far, literally cutting off the thoughts before they got so distressing. It was simply what he needed to do to get the work done. But sometimes when he wasn’t working, when he was trying to get some much needed sleep, he couldn’t pretend that his feelings were just a distraction from something more important. He couldn’t just push them aside, he would try to, and try to lie still and sleep, willing his body to let go, so that his mind could do the same, but he knew that it wouldn’t work. So he would stumble out of bed, frantically grabbing for his razor. H would slash at his flesh again and again, deeper and deeper until finally it was enough and the pain would wash over him and he could lie back down and fall asleep as he ruined his sheets and his blood started to dry.

 

After the six months it took Sherlock to find Sebastian Moran killing him was incredibly disappointing, so easy in fact. All he had to do was hide in the secret tunnel, off of the London underground, which led to Moran’s hide out, and wait for him to return from his midnight poker game. He had only had to wait for half an hour before he heard Moran approaching. He silently stepped out and lazily slipped his syringe into the much larger man’s neck. Moran immediately fell to the ground paralyzed by the drug that would kill him within Seconds.

“You,” Moran said softly, “I should have seen you coming,” he said frowning, but then he smiled, “But look at you, so broken, you might as well be dead. Looks like maybe we won after all.” Then Moran’s eyes glazed over and dulled. Sherlock nudged the body over with his boot so that it was face down. He walked back out of the tunnel into the early morning rays that were just starting to dry up the haze in the streets. Sebastian’s words hardly weighed on his mind at all as he strode purposefully down the street. It was the third Saturday morning of the month. Now Sherlock knew to keep track of the changes John made to his schedule as he took on more shifts at the A&E. John would be at Sherlock's grave in three hours, Sherlock couldn’t wait to see him.

It was only five in the morning, so Sherlock happily killed the time by picking a fat businessman's pocket and ordering a coffee and donut at a cafe. He watching as the street slowly filled with more and more people on their way to work, until it was time for him to get on his way as well.

He was so eager to reveal himself, he didn’t notice the tension in John’s shoulders as he saw him stand before his grave, until he heard a shout through the transmitter. “Fuck you Sherlock Holmes.” First, Sherlock thought John must have seen him. He was hoping that John would not respond to his return with anger, but he knew it was a likely possibility. Checking himself he concluded that he was still firmly out of sight and that John was only swearing at his grave.

“You know what I did today, you bastard? I pumped the stomach of some college boy who had taken twenty sleeping pills with vodka. When I asked him why he did it, do you know what he said? He said he was fucking BORED with life. Is that what you were Sherlock, bored with life? Tired of me chasing you around, and saving you, putting my life on the line. Bored with me keeping you fed, and making sure you slept, just to have you chase off any woman I was ever interested in. Well if you were bored with it, then I was sick of it too. I wish I had never met you. You’ve ruined my life.” John screamed, and Sherlock was running away, blinded with tears, he thought he might be sick, he was already racing down the sidewalk away from the graveyard when John dropped to his knees sobbing. “Why did you leave me Sherlock, was I not enough for you? Interesting enough for you? Well if I wasn’t, I’m sorry, because you deserve the most interesting man in the world. I miss you so much. I’m ruined without you.”

Sherlock received many looks on the street, as he ran shaking and sobbing back to his flat. He slammed the door behind him. The assassins were right, he was right, all his doubts were proven, John Watson was better off without him, John didn’t want him. Not only that, John hated him. He threw off his jacket and and frantically pulled his shirt off over his head, and kicked off his shoes before pushing his pants off of his hips. He grabbed his razor and settled himself in his too small bathtub. He was worthless, a failure, and he had ruined John Watson’s life. The only person he had ever loved, wished they had never met. Well that was over now. He started slashing first at his left arm until it was covered in enough blood that it was hard to see where he had already placed his cuts, he moved to his left leg, then switching the razor to his non-dominant hand he repeated the process on his right side, until his whole body was burning with pain, and his mind numb. He thought he would never feel another thing for John Watson.  He thought he might never feel another thing ever again.

 

Too bad it didn’t work. He woke up the next morning with more than just his body aching. He had fallen asleep easily in his bathtub, nodding off part from exhaustion and part from blood loss. He could have died, he didn’t care. He woke with the most hollow numbness in his chest, which he knew could only be heartbreak since he had not inflicted and physical damage there. He cleaned himself up, feeling slightly wobbly on his feet as he showered away the blood dried and caked across his skin. He was lost, what could he do now. He had no mission, no reason to do anything. He dressed himself in a trance, unable to think more than a minute into his future. That would be to painful. He left his apartment and wandered slowly down the street. He had nothing. He was nothing.

He wandered aimlessly for hours. Then he passed an alley where he saw the exchange of a small bag of powder for a few bills. He could feel good again, or at least he could feel something other than what he was feeling right now. There was no reason not too, the only person who he cared about, no longer cared about him, so why not. He pickpocketed the next man he passed, not caring that the man was working two jobs and had three children.

 

Back in his flat he cooked up the heroin. It had been so long since he had done this, but now he had his mission it was simple to do. He was so empty that even this simple task gave him great meaning and motivation. He slid the needle into his vein, pulled back the plunger to see a tiny plume of red before depressing the plunger, and feeling his world sliding away. He felt like he was being wrapped in white cotton, he still knew that he was worthless and that John hated him, but now somehow it didn’t hurt. He didn’t mind so much anymore.

 

When he was high he would dream of John, John happy, John happy to be with Sherlock. Then he would come down from the high and have to slice at himself again just to gather the strength it took to leave the apartment and score his next hit.

Three weeks later, he decided that it wasn’t enough. That the effort it took to drag his body around and fulfill its’ chemical needs was too great. He had taken down all the mirrors in his apartment, but if he hadn’t, he was sure that he wouldn’t even have a reflection. He was just a ghost.

He walked out of his apartment to go find Olly, his dealer. He stumbled on the stairs smacking the side of his face hard against the wall before he fell with a thump onto his arse.

What? Why had that happened, I’m not high now. Oh bloodsugar right, guess I won’t be bothered with that anymore.

When he found Olly he gave him the last of his money and started to cook up the heroin right there behind the dumpster in the little side street. Olly smiled at him, “You gonna share that with me?”

“No,” Sherlock replied shortly drawing up all of the amber liquid into his syringe.

“But, Sherlock, thats too much even for a seasoned player like yourself.” Olly said as Sherlock pulled his turnquest tight around his arm and slid the needle into his vein.

“Sherlock! You're gonna kill yourself.” Olly shouted lunging at Sherlock, but it was too late. Sherlock pushed the plunger. Sherlock gave Olly a smirk that could only mean, “good” before slumping down the wall.

“God fucking dammit, Sherlock,” Olly swore shaking him, before he pulled the needle and turquette from his arm and pulled his sleeve down. He then ran out onto the street. He did not want to be around for the fallout of this one. Once on the main road he took a second to call 999 on a payphone. He didn’t want the bloke to die after all.

“What's your emergency?” a woman's voice came through the phone.

“I just saw a bloke collapse down on Gordon street,” he said quickly and hung up before she could ask him any more questions. Then he ran. He wanted to be as far away as possible when the ambulance showed up.

  
Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness. He felt his eyes opening, could he be doing that? He saw the face of John Watson and felt so safe and happy, though he knew he was only imagining things, he couldn’t even lift his eyelids after all. Then he remembered John, the fall, he had failed, and now he was going to die, that was the point, and after all he was already dead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments, it was really great to get a positive reaction so soon after posting the first chapter. There is more too come. Eight chapters totall, all written, just need to get around to editing them.


	4. Waiting

John did not go home and get some rest as his colleague had suggested. He threw his coat into his locker before returning to the floor where Sherlock, God willing, would be brought soon. As he waited he flipped open his phone, and dialed one of the few numbers he had bothered to memorize.

“Hello? Mycroft this is John.” he said as soon as he heard the click of the receiver on the other end.  

“John, how nice to hear from you,” Mycroft replied.

“Sherlock’s alive.” John blurted.

“Yes, I am well aware.”

“Wait you're what.” John stumbled confused, “Oh of course you are, nevermind,” he snapped irritated, “Anyway he might not stay that way, I just got him in A&E on a heroin overdose, he is in pretty bad shape Mycroft.”

“Oh dear I had hoped he would not turn to that, is he going to live?” Mycroft inquired impossibly cool.

“Most likely, but his heart stopped. We were able to restart it, but it could happen again. And what do you mean you hoped he wouldn’t turn to that? What do you know Mycroft?” John was shouting now. How could Mycroft be so calm at a time like this.

“Well John, Sherlock faked his own death because Moriarty made him a deal. Either he jump to his death, or assassins would kill you, Lestrade and Missus Hudson. After the jump, he went into hiding. Even I did not know his exact whereabouts while he dealt with the three assassins, though I was remotely providing him with intelligence. When he finished the Job three weeks ago, I expected him to return, but I think he must have decided that you were better off without him in your life. I feared he might turn to something like this, but he was so far in hiding that even I could not monitor him.” Mycroft explained frowning slightly.

“Why on earth would he think I was better off without him?” John asked.

“My brother does not think very highly of himself John, before you, he believed that he would always be alone, and that nobody could care about him, that is why he always was so annoyed by my attempts to help him, he believed it was false sentiment born out of propriety. Anyway, he subjected himself to his many self destructive tendencies fully believing that anyone who cared was stupid or crazy. My brother was a deeply unhappy person, though he would never show it. Also I think his conclusion might have had something to do with your behavior at his gravesite three weeks ago.”

John paled, thinking back to the day he had dealt with the suicidal teenager. He hadn’t been able to deal with his feelings of anger, and had yelled at Sherlock’s headstone. Then he had run out of anger and was left only with sadness once more. He had been angry many times before, so angry at Sherlock for what he had done, but he had never said it out loud before, let alone screamed it where anyone could hear, and evidently where Sherlock was listening.

“John,” Mycroft said, his voice now coming from the end of the hall where Mycroft had just come through the door. “You can’t blame yourself you had no way of knowing Sherlock was listening, and it was Sherlock’s choice to go back to drugs. He is responsible for his actions.”

“There’s  more,” John said scrubbing his hands over his face and though his sandy hair. “He… He was covered in cuts, Mycroft. Self inflicted, He must have had a hundred on each arm. I wonder if the overdose was even accidental. You don’t think he was trying to kill himself do you?”

“John, my brother is meticulous, as you know, it is hard for me to imagine him making that kind of mistake.”

“Oh, God.” John whimpered, slumping down into one of the blue plastic chairs in the hallway, just to jump up again as Sherlock was rolled down the hall and into one of the rooms. John ran up to the nurses who delivered him.

“How is he.” John asked urgently.

“He’ll live,” one of the nurses responded, “He may be unconscious for a long time, and we won’t know until he wakes up if he has any brain damage.” John just nodded dumbly before entering the room where Sherlock lay unconscious. He looked horrible, John took his time looking at Sherlock’s face. He was going to examine him more closely now that he was out of immediate danger. John didn’t need too do an exam. Sherlock would have a new head doctor by now, but it was the only thing he could think to do, he couldn’t just sit there, and his doctorly instincts told him to gather data. So he did.

Sherlock’s hair was longer than he had ever seen it, it was limp and greasy hardly curling at all as is fell around his face. His eyes were sunken and he had deep purple bruises under them, as well as a dark bruise on his cheek that wasn’t just from lack of sleep and general poor health. He had a cannula under his nose to provide him with more oxygen, his breathing was still depressed. His lips were chapped and scabbed. His skin was thin and sallow, he hardly looked alive. Mycroft stepped closer to watch John as he pulled down Sherlock’s blanket revealing his thin body under a little paper hospital gown. His arms had been wrapped in gauze, dcoctors must have disinfected and then wrapped them to keep out further infection. Some of the cuts should have gotten stitches, but were old enough that it was too late for that. John felt at Sherlock's chest, feeling his protruding ribs and sternum, he pulled the blanket down a bit further to confirmed his fear that the cuts had not just been on his arms. Sherlock's legs had been wrapped in a similar manner. When he had finished he pulled the blankets back over Sherlock's body, all the way up to his chin. He looked so cold, and fragile like a change in air pressure could reduce his body to dust.

John sat down in the chair beside Mycroft, and watched Sherlock's chest move up and down ever so slightly with his shallow breaths. How could Sherlock have done this. John felt so guilty about his outburst now, but he still felt angry at Sherlock. How could Sherlock just discount everything he had ever said or done to show him how important he was because of one rant of a man sick with grief. He understood why Sherlock had to fake his own death, but now trying to make it real, how could he, how could he not see how much John was suffering and not care, not come back.

John didn’t notice as he fell asleep, he had been exhausted before Sherlock came through the A&E doors and turned his world upside down. He woke with a start as a Doctor knocked lightly on the door. Mycroft was gone, on his seat was a note stating simply. “Gone to breakfast.” He recognized the woman who came through the door, it was Helen form the psychiatric department.

“Oh, hello John,” she said, surprised to see him there, “Do you know him, I just passed his brother in the hall.”

“Yeah I know him,” John replied. He paused,  not knowing how else to describe their relationship to her, “He was my flatmate for years.”  “He was my life”, might have been more accurate.

“Well im here to get him a section two,” she said looking down at her clipboard and frowning quizzically. “You were the one who put him on the psych hold, did you treat him in triage?”

“Yeah, he was unidentified when he came in, I recognized him as soon as I saw him, but there wasn’t time to deal with the ethics of treating a friend.”

“Of course, but that couldn’t have been easy,” she said looking at John sympathetically. He realized he probably didn’t look so great himself, having just slept three hours sitting up after nearly thirty sleepless hours.

“No, I guess not.”

“Anyhow lets see, extensive self injury and heroin abuse. The overdose, do you think it was accidental or a suicide attempt?”

John’s stomach twisted. “I think he did it on purpose,” he managed to say.

“As does his brother. Right well I will have to get his other doctor a social worker to co-sign, his brother already has. Then the paperwork should be through within the hour, Masters has been assigned as his head doctor by the way, so he is in good hands.”

“Right.” John nodded, he wanted Helen to leave, he wanted this conversation to be over, somehow having everything be said out loud was much worse than just knowing it.

Mycroft strode in as Helen left. Looking at John where he sat limply in his chair.

“Have you considered what you are going to say to him when he regains consciousness?” Mycroft asked.

John scrubbed his hands over his face, “No, what can I say Mycroft. I could tell him that I care and he should stay alive because of that. I could tell him that I'm furious at him for doing this to himself, doing this to me. Both are true. I don’t know what I can say that would help, or if I can help at all. I don’t know if I can watch him try and destroy himself. I’ve had him sectioned for God’s sake, do you think he will ever forgive me for that?”

“John this isn’t your fault. It may seem like this is about you, Sherlock may even think it is about you, but the truth is that Sherlock is sick, and he was before he met you. It wasn’t your rant that made him believe he was unlovable and undeserving of love, he has always believed that. You were the only person who made him even question that. This would have happened had he never met you, in fact it probably would have happened sooner.

“You should tell Sherlock that you care about him, you should also tell him that you are angry. Tell him the truth. Sherlock is going to have to get better for himself.  You can’t fix him with love John, but maybe you can convince him to fix himself. He has never been interested before. He accepted going to rehab, but has always refused psychiatric help. He believes his intellect is all that he is worth, and could not risk altering his brain to be more conducive to happiness, because then it might be less conducive to thought. But you, John, he cares about you, more than he cares about his precious intellect. Maybe you can convince him to try.”

As John had listened he felt like he could understand now, that it made sense, it was so like Sherlock to neglect himself for the sake of his genius. John still felt horrible, but not as guilty, it wasn’t really his fault.

“Alright,” he said nodding once to Mycroft.

“Good, I will be going, I’m fairly certain Sherlock would not be happy to see me when he awakens, and I need to make arrangements for him once he is stable enough to be moved.”

John just nodded, he was too tired and full of thought to bother with anything more. Mycroft left and John pulled his chair closer to Sherlock's bed so that he could rest his head on the mattress down by Sherlock’s hip. He looked up at Sherlock’s sleeping face and remembered Missus Hudson saying, “Who knows what goes on in that funny little head?” Who indead. He found the spot where Sherlock’s hand was under the blanket and placed his own hand over it, feeling the IV tubing through the covers. “Oh Sherlock, whatever will we do with you,” he sighed before once again drifting off to sleep.

 

 


	5. Awake

When John awoke it was dark, he had slept all day. He felt a slight movement of Sherlock's hand and looked up to see Sherlock’s silver eyes snapping open to look at him. When Sherlock saw John the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

NO NO NO this is all wrong, how did this happen? He must have survived the overdose, the closest hospital was Saint Barts, they must have brought him here where John... He remembered seeing John. He had thought it was just a dream, but no, John had saved him. How could he have been so stupid.

John saw the horrified look on Sherlock’s face and tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand as he sat up. “Sherlock, Sherlock it’s ok. You’re in  hospital.” Sherlock tried to snatch his hand out of John’s grasp but was too weak to manage more than a slight tug.

“No,” Sherlock rasped, shaking his head slightly.

“Sherlock, listen to me. I know why you faked your death, and what you have been doing for the last year, and that you took care of all the assassins. Why didn’t you come back to me Sherlock?”

“John…” Sherlock’s speech and breathing were labored. “You were better off... better off without me.”

John felt his throat tighten, “Is that why you tried to kill yourself?”

Sherlock looked shocked. How could John know it wasn’t an accident? Oh of course John knew I would never make that kind of mistake, so there was no point in denying it. Sherlock nodded bleakly.

John let go of Sherlock’s hand and stood up his brow furrowing in frustration. “How could you do this Sherlock? How could you be so stupid as to think I wouldn’t want you in my life? How could you let one stupid rant erase all the times I told you that I needed you, all the things I did to show you that I cared?”

How did John know he heard that rant? Mycroft must of been here, Mycroft would have known, I wasn’t the only one to have bugged the grave.

John continued, “Just because I was angry, Just because I am angry doesn’t mean I don’t want you in my life. I care more about you than I have ever cared about anybody ever. Living without you was like living without my own lungs. You thought that I was better off without you, but you were WRONG SHERLOCK!” John finished. He was crying for real as he shouted. The whole while Sherlock had been watching him bleakly and shaking his head.

“I’m never wrong,” Sherlock whispered, barely audible.

John balked at him, that was totally absurd, and he was going to tell Sherlock as much, but the look on Sherlock’s face made him pause. Sherlock really believed what he was saying. John sat back down, and took a deep breath before responding.

“Sherlock I know you really believe that, but you are wrong. You might think you are unlovable or undeserving of love, but I love you Sherlock, and you deserve it, and I deserve to have you alive and with me. I want to love you till you are fixed, but I know I can’t do that, but you have to try and get better, Sherlock you have to try and get better for me, because I can’t stand to lose you again. Sherlock if you really want what’s best for me, you will go to whatever facility Mycroft is arranging for you, and you will get better.”

At his last sentence fear gripped Sherlock’s chest, what was John talking about the facility Mycroft was arranging? Right of course he was being sectioned. If the drug use and the cutting weren’t enough, Mycroft and John knew that the overdose wasn’t accidental. He was going to be sent to a mental hospital where in addition to being taken off heroin he would be forced to look at all his horrible thoughts in front of everyone and he wouldn’t be able to make them go away with the bite of a blade. Then everyone would see how ugly his insides really were, they would know, and John would know. He couldn’t.

“John, I can’t. I can’t go there. It will be too hard.” Sherlock said gasping. He had to get John to take him home and he could keep all the ugly inside until he could disappear without hurting John.

John saw the desperation in Sherlock’s eyes, and it broke him a little more inside. “Sherlock you don’t have a choice, I know it will be hard, but you have to. You can get through this I promise. I can visit you until you can come home. But you have to deal with this Sherlock. Please. You have to believe me that I’m better with you. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. You have to believe that the world is a better place because you are in it, and not just your massive intellect, but you. And you have to believe that you deserve to be happy. That you deserve me.”

Sherlock watched John, could he possibly be being sincere? He looked like he was being sincere. Even if he was, it was only because he didn’t know what he was talking about, Sherlock knew better. Did he really? John was always the one who understood people. Perhaps Sherlock was wrong. Perhaps John really did want him around. But he was so broken how could he ever fix himself for John.

He didn’t realize his shoulders were shaking with sobs, until John had climbed up on the bed to wrap his arms around him.

“Shhhh. Sherlock. Its ok. It’s going to be ok. Your safe, I’m here, I’ll be here.”

“I, I can’t, I can’t do it John, I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Sherlock gasped out between sobs.

“You can. You can, and you will. It’s going to be hard, but you can do this Sherlock. I know you can do this.” John soothed.

Sherlock finally just nodded his head furiously into John’s shoulder as he sobbed. John kept gently rocking his detective until his sobbing finally stopped. John took Sherlock's chin in his hand tilting his head up. John wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing, but it felt like it was, so he kissed Sherlock. It was a chaste closed lipped kiss. When he pulled back Sherlock was looking at him in surprise, but it didn’t seem to be unpleasant surprise.

“Sherlock,” John started. “I know this is complicated. I’m straight, and you don’t even go in for that kind of thing, but I would be happy with my right hand for the rest of my life if that meant I got you. You are the most important person in the world to me. I don’t care about the rest of it.” Sherlock didn’t know what to say so he just nodded into John’s Shoulder. They sat in silence. John was starting to wonder if Sherlock had fallen asleep.

“I love you,” Sherlock said in a near whisper as if would rather John not hear.

“I love you too Sherlock.” John said putting his arms back around the detective, holding him until he fell asleep.

 

By the next day, Sherlock was going through intense withdrawal. He was sweating and shaking. John stayed while Sherlock threw up and twitched, though he couldn’t really tell if Sherlock knew he was there. He was going to stay as long as they would bloody well let him. So he did, even though watching Sherlock was tearing him up inside. By the fifth day the vomiting and shaking had stopped and Sherlock was able to get up and take a shower. He looked much better after getting out. His skin and hair looked less thin and greasy. He was even starting to get some of his color back. It wasn’t long after that, when two doctors came to take him to the hospital where he would receive long term rehabilitation and psychiatric treatment. Sherlock got into the wheelchair on his own volition, though it couldn’t be more obvious that it was the last thing in the world he wanted to to. John walked beside him as they pushed him down the hall. Sherlock grabbed his hand and held it all the way out of the hospital. When they reached the van Sherlock got up. He turned and grabbed John in a tight hug, “You promise me you will come and visit.” He said, fear and doubt so obvious in his voice.

“Of course I will Sherlock, as often and for as long as they will let me.”

Sherlock nodded into his shoulder, before climbing into the van. John couldn’t help but feel some of the same anxiety and fear that Sherlock was feeling as the van drove away. He knew that Sherlock could do this, but it didn’t stop him from fearing that he wouldn’t. 


	6. Changes

John kept true to his word and visited Sherlock every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday for the two hours he was allowed. At first it was mostly quiet and he would just sit with Sherlock. After a few weeks Sherlock started talking more and more about what he was doing at the facility. Sometimes he would tell John what they would talk about in his group sessions. Sometimes he would tell John how hard it was to be here and have no escape from himself at all. They had taken away his drugs and his razor and had thus taken away his only relief from all the pain that he felt. It was John who convinced Sherlock to start taking the antidepressants. John had found studies showing that depression could cause memory problems and slow processing and that antidepressants could actually improve these things. He convinced Sherlock that he would not lose his gifts by becoming less miserable. By the second month, Sherlock had stop talking so much about how horrible he felt and how difficult it was for him to get out of bed and go about his day. He started to talk about the experiments he was planning for when he got out, and complaining more and more about how dull it was at the facility, and how everyone was so stupid. John took this as a very good sign. 

At the end of two months John went to pick Sherlock up to bring him home. Sherlock had been doing very well. He had seemed more and more animated. On his last visit John had taken a moment to be serious.   
“Sherlock do you believe now all the things that I told you at the hospital, that im better off with you around, that the world is better off, and that you deserve to be happy?”  
Sherlock paused clearly giving the question some thought. “Yes,” he replied, “I believe it. Sometimes I can’t feel it. Sometimes I still feel like I’m a worthless failure who makes everything and everyone around me worse off, but even though I feel that way I can know that it isn’t true.” He looked up at John with a slight frown on his face as if he wanted to have said the right thing but wasn’t sure if he had.  
“That good Sherlock, thats really good. When you come home you can come to me when you feel that way.”  
Sherlock looked at him for a moment before nodding. Then he started to tell John about the experiment he wanted to conduct on the internal pressure of caskets in relation to the decomposition of the body. John was very happy.


	7. Home

When John’s taxi pulled up to the front of the building he could see Sherlock in the second floor lobby with his nose pressed against the window. John had barely stepped foot in the lobby before Sherlock was dragging him back out again.

“Sherlock, wait a second, we have to deal with the release paperwork.”  John said pulling the detective back again.

“Dull,” Sherlock said with an exasperated sigh, but followed John back to the front desk and signed his name in all the right places, until finally, finally, finally! They could leave.

In the cab Sherlock was practically vibrating in excitement. He couldn’t wait to get back to Baker Street. Molly had sent him over some livers, and he had great plans for them.

When the cab pulled up in front of 221b. He nearly jumped out while the cab was still moving. John quickly paid the cabby and followed the detective up the stairs and through the front doors, Sherlock was at the kitchen table in a moment wanting to open the box with the livers in it as soon as possible.

“Sherlock,” John said as the detective rushed about the flat gathering the tools he would need. “Sherlock,” John said a bit louder still unable to get the man's attention. “SHERLOCK!” He said again this time grabbing the other man's arm as he passed.

“Yes, John what is it, I’m a bit busy.” Sherlock said turning to face John. John grabbed the other man by the shoulders and pressed his lips against the detectives, in a chaste but firm kiss.

“Welcome home.” John said pulling away, he hadn’t kissed Sherlock since that night in the hospital. He thought it was best if the physical side of their relationship waited until Sherlock was well enough to be home. He had talked to Sherlock about this once when he had visited, and Sherlock had seemed largely unconcerned. “John,” he had said, “I have no doubt that our physical relationship will hold many interesting and enjoyable experiences, but its really not the important thing. You are the important thing.” He said, poking at John’s temple, “Not you,” He finished gesturing vaguely at John’s body. John understood the sentiment. He wasn’t really interested in Sherlock sexually, because he wasn’t just interested in Sherlock's body, he was interested in Sherlock. That being said, now that Sherlock was home and nobody was watching, he wanted nothing more than to kiss the bloody detective.

He had gotten Sherlock’s attention and the livers were forgotten as Sherlock kissed John back. The doctor placed his hands on the detectives hips while he felt fingers grip into his hair. The kiss was unhurried and perfect. Then it was frantic and perfect. Then Sherlock slid his hand up under John’s shirt before grabbing the hem and pulling it up and over John’s head. When John’s fingers went to the buttons of Sherlock's shirt the detective had pulled away slightly. Of course, John thought, the scars.

“Sherlock it’s alright,” the doctor whispered, “I don’t mind the scars. I really don’t mind.”

Sherlock had nodded before hesitantly kissing John again as John unbuttoned his shirt and then pulled it off over his shoulders. The cuts had turned to scars that were still pink, in the early stages of healing, but John didn’t mind at all, seeing them healing at all made him so happy. Seeing Sherlock having put on weight, the ribs he could see so clearly before, now covered by the planes of his pectoral muscles, made John thrum with joy. John gently pushed Sherlock back so he was lying on the sofa  before he climbed on himself. He placed his knees on either side of the detectives thighs, and his hands on either side of Sherlock’s ears. John kissed Sherlock over and over, on his nose, on his knees on the palms of his hands, on his eyelids, and on his mouth especially his mouth. Until he was tired and collapsed down beside Sherlock on the sofa, smiling.

“John, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.” Sherlock said, sounding a bit in awe.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, Sherlock.” John replied. 


	8. Together

“You idiots!” Sherlock exclaimed, but without his normal pained expression and exasperated tone, it sounded more endearing than derisive.

It was two weeks, after Sherlock had returned home. Lestrade had called them in on a case. It was a simple one, only a four at best. Sherlock had it sorted in a couple of minutes. John wondered if Lestrade had really needed their help or if he just wanted Sherlock back. Lestrade had been dying to see Sherlock ever since John had called and caught him up when Sherlock went to rehab, but Lestrade was too shy to go and visit him there. He thought it would make the detective uncomfortable.

Lestrade and John watched amusedly while Sherlock berated Donovan and Anderson. Somehow it seemed more friendly now.

“I can’t believe it,” Lestrade remarked, “He is a reformed man, usually he would be so angry to be dragged out for a case this simple and boring, but look at him, he is actually smiling while he tells Anderson how his ‘inability to see what is going on here can only be explained by severe visual impairment.’”

“Yeah it is pretty remarkable,” John replied with a chuckle, and then more seriously “ I think not believing that everyone hates you and that you deserve it can do wonders for a person.”

Lestrade nodded and looked back to Sherlock who was now berating Donovan. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this happy in his life. You are a miracle worker Doctor Watson.”

“It wasn’t me really. He did all the hard work. I mostly just watched and waited.”

“And then jumped his bones the second you got him back from lockup.”

“Well that too.” John said smiling.

“Well I’m really happy for you two. Your a lucky man John.”

“Don’t I know it.” John responded as Sherlock strode up to him quickly and grabbed him by the arm.

“Come on John, lets go before their stupidity starts to rub off on me.” Sherlock said hotly.

“You're not going to give Lestrade and official statement or wrap up the paperwork?”

“Of course not. Don’t be absurd John.” Sherlock replied with a look of horror on his face before striding off his coat flaring behind him.

John just smiled and shook his head.  Some things never do change. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody, thank you so much for reading my first fic and thanks to those of you who gave me such positive comments! If anybody has feed back even if it is negative, I would love to hear it so that I can improve my writing. Hopefully I will have more stuff to post soon!


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